Haul

The last brown box and bulging plastic bag’s
been thrown inside the truck. A vacuum screams
through empty rooms while morning dawns and drags.

The past is bundled up, we’ll follow dreams
of wealth and newness in another town,
a neighborhood with winding streets, shade trees
and parks. Escape’s the road we’re driving down,
scrambling to find those blasted keys
and turn the locks. Before the front door shuts
for good, a glance around the house reveals
familiar ways and that our lives had ruts:

the dingy pathways on the carpet show
high-traffic routes, that we just spin our wheels,
because we’re there no matter where we go.